Alba, Bela
by IseultLaBelle
Summary: Ange rushes home to comfort a distraught Chloe after a terrible confession. Post Evan. Based on a spoiler for December's Holby episodes. Sequel to Belarus. (Alba- Scots Gaelic for Scotland. Bela- Belarusian for white.)
1. Chapter 1

**This was written as a sequel to Belarus- which confusingly is also getting a part II, but this is not it! This is a kind of stand-alone follow-up, but I would recommend you read Belarus first if you haven't already. This was written to process the Holby spoilers for December- it doesn't directly address them but it might still be best to save this for later if you want to remain totally spoiler-free. **

**This was also written partly because I'm not sure how many of you worked out why I gave Belarus that title- this one will make it clear. **

**And yes, I'm throwing out the creative writing rulebook again. Sorry. Reviews would be wonderful, if you 'get' it, I would love to know, and if you hate second-person narrative I promise to never do it again! **

**-IseultLaBelle x **

Silence, as you approach the front door.

Spare key into the lock. One rotation, handle down, push.

Breathe.

(Why he trusts you with a spare key, exactly, when he's known you less than a year, understood the true nature of your relationship to one another and the terrible betrayal and yet selfless release you served him all those years ago, you truly don't know, but the honour is sufficient that no part of you dares question it.)

Disorder, in the hallway, more silence.

Her favourite trainers, retro, nineties-esque, mustard yellow and orange and golden bronze and utterly repulsive, when she first bought them, though they've grown on you now, discarded messily, tangled in together with those belonging to your other child and those you don't recognise. Her dark green handbag by the radiator, coat and scarf draped over the bannister haphazardly, dumped in a hurry, frantic, tell the story of her arrival on the doorstep.

Not that you need it, of course.

Tears, on the phone, tears and hyperventilating and panicked sobbing and that awful, heart-breaking squeaking sound she always makes when she's struggling to breathe, distressed, that same sound she made when she was born, when she finally worked out how to use her lungs but still too small to cope with filling them with oxygen herself again and again, the sound she'd make when she was poorly and you'd stay up all night with her, watching the delicate rise and fall of her chest.

Seal sounds, you used to call it.

(She was so adorable. She still is.)

You'd been in theatre, when she called, and she'd tried to call your mobile and you hadn't answered because you were right in the middle of removing a particularly colitis-riddled section of bowel and debating whether to admit defeat and go straight in with a stoma, so she'd tried YAU instead, then Keller, and that's when you'd known.

You'd had Essie stand beside you with the phone on speaker, the ultimate act of supermum-ism- is that even a word? Screw it, it is now. Stitching remains of functioning intestine back together you'd murmured gentle reassurances to her down the phone, one broken thing you could fix and one thing you couldn't and for a while, you hadn't known which was which.

(It was the colitis, as it turned out, that you couldn't. That means you can fix your little shadow, surely?)

Go to your brother's, you'd told her, had Essie text Dom to double check he was home and happy to come to her rescue from her own phone while you'd carried on with all the soothing words you could think of, all the usual tried and tested techniques and still it had taken longer than usual to calm her down, horribly evident from the surgical clock in front of you, the progress you'd made by the time you heard her shaky breathing level out at last.

You knew it would, after what she told you yesterday.

God, this is such a horrible, awful mess.

Not Chloe.

Not your perfect, innocent little Chloe.

That thought still floods through you a thousand times a day, all these weeks on, and unsurprisingly it's still not made it all better.

You've no idea how you're holding it together, after her latest revelation, but you know you must, and so somehow, you do.

She needs you.

It's as simple as that.

Wide blue-green eyes, ocean foam on Skye and the wild mountain thyme of the Highlands (what's that in Gallic? Beinne… something? Chloe would know) pleaded with you to make it all better, when she told you yesterday afternoon, and you'd give her the world if you could.

Ocean foam on Skye and wild mountain thyme of the Highlands, because that's how you've defined her identity for her since the day she was born; and that matters more than ever now, because should she make the choice you're utterly desperate to steer her away from, in the end, you'll need to teach her how to do it, too.

Ocean foam on Skye and wild mountain thyme.

Not the pastel green of the Turov Meadow and the nature reclaimed of the Belarusian exclusion zone. (Bela: white, like pure, beautiful. The only part of that missing puzzle piece that fits; not that Chloe will ever know.)

That root is irrelevant; it withered and died the day you fell in love with your tiny, perfect little blessing.

(You look it up on the internet, from time to time, and the more you do, the more adamant you become that your little girl has nothing to do with the provider of the latter half of her chromosomes; biology, necessity for her to exist, to be yours. Nothing more.)

The exclusion zone might have been grey and lifeless and barren and black and white- because that's how footage of the Cold War was in the eighties, life beyond the curtain in a land whose name you never knew before- back when the man who never was and never will be Chloe's father forced your legs apart down the alleyway behind the Auldhouse Arms, but it it's far from that now.

Mother nature taken it for her own again, according to the news articles you found on google, all radioactive wolves and contaminated water and genetic mutations like something out of a horror film.

Chloe doesn't come from that.

Chloe is _you_; your half of the gift of life you both gave her, Scottish, Island girl, if you trace back through the tree far enough, but Scottish, however you want to argue it, nothing else.

(You looked it all up once, because you heard something on the local radio about the Children of Chernobyl project on the way to pick her up from school, and for several days after that all your knowledge of the biology advanced higher you passed with flying colours and the physics one you gave up on about three weeks into S6 left you and you couldn't make sense of it all at all, panicked that Chloe had inherited the mutated DNA of radioactive catastrophe and she'd be riddled with cancer by the time she was twenty.

Fuck knows, had been the verdict from your physics professor friend, at the time.

Fuck knows, when it comes to that world that arose from the Soviet ashes; the official data is riddled with the same legacy that created that mess in the first place.

So you made sure to steer Chloe away from specialising in radiology and insist she book her smear tests the moment the NHS letters come through, and you'll do the same when she qualifies for mammograms, because what else can you do?

(You didn't tell your physics professor friend why you wanted to know.)

No; Chloe is yours.

Chloe has always been yours, and yours alone.

Your history, your legacy.

You close your eyes, just for a moment, as you stand in the hallway, mountain pose, some kind of sana, or whatever it's called.

You never got on with yoga.

Chloe is seven, in your mind's eye, and she runs along the beach on Skye with the winds and the salt of the Atlantic blowing in her hair as it billows out behind her- and it was strawberry blonde, back then, before she discovered the peroxide that only brought her appearance closer still to the land of her father, though of course you'd never tell her. She's barefoot, carefree, sings to herself in a language you never really understood but belongs to you, not him, skips on her tiptoes like the highland dancer your own mother moulded her into back then and you watched her from your sunbathing spot, utterly in love, wondered how you could have created something so beautiful.

You don't allow yourself to wonder if she'll ever be so carefree again.

Silence, still, throughout Dom's house.

Silence, but the living room door is closed, and so gently, cautiously, you knock, and then you wait.

"You can come in," your son all but whispers.

Gentle pressure. Friction on the carpet.

Composure.

Alesha Dixon.

Chloe used to love that song, and you totally encouraged that because it beat the Julie Fowlis.

(_Duilich_, Julie.)

The warmth hits you the moment you get the door open; radiator on full, curtains drawn, nest-like, safe retreat.

Chloe lies across the sofa lengthways, leans against Dom's side, his arms around her the way you'd have held her yourself if only you'd been here and you're torn between melting a little inside at the sight of your babies being so sweet with one another and complete and utter heartbreak for your poor little girl and the pain you know she's feeling.

You know only too well, because it happened to you, too, but it has to be worse.

Because she was your Chloe; your green shoots in spring, new life like a phoenix from the wastelands of Pollock Shields and that's how you know she'll never belong to the radioactive wasteland of the monster you do not speak of.

Alba, Bela.

Scotland, beautiful, Scotland, white.

Not two halves of an identity, dual heritage, joint nationality.

Never that.

It was different for you, you remind yourself, as you take in your daughter, snuggled into your son's side as though she's peaceful and content although her troubled, sleepy expression tells a different story, her feet resting on your son-in-law's lap.

You didn't have to death with the birthright, the legacy, the anxiety and the panic attacks and the self-harming and the desperate need for constant love and reassurance your fragile little miracle does.

Chloe isn't strong enough for this.

"How is she?" you whisper.

There's pain, in your son's eyes, but Chloe sleeps on.

"She's alright," Dom murmurs. He strokes her hair with a tenderness you couldn't have imagined him showing towards his baby sister just a few weeks ago, glances across to Lofty. "She's exhausted, poor thing, she sobbed until we thought she was going to pass out, but she calmed down eventually. She's vomited a bit- quite a lot, actually. But she seemed alright, before she fell asleep, we think it was just the crying- it was… violent. Took us a while to calm her breathing down. Although she went positively green at the mere sight of the sushi we ordered her, actually, and she couldn't stomach our pizzas, either- we obviously offered, I know you mentioned she's not been eating. So maybe she is coming down with something after all, I don't know."

So he hasn't put the pieces together, you realise.

Thank fuck for that.

"She's…" Dom trails off awkwardly, pain and guilt and apology in his eyes all at once. "She's cut herself pretty badly. We've patched up her wrists, but we're pretty sure she's… the way she's guarding, and there's… there's blood. We think she's cut her stomach, too, but she wouldn't let us look and we didn't want to push it. Lofty found a razor blade in her handbag, so we've… taken it for safe keeping, for the time being."

"We weren't sure… I mean, it's different for everyone, isn't it?" Lofty covers uncertainly. "We weren't sure what you'd normally do with her, we thought it might be best to… you know… just until you got back…"

You shake your head. "No. No, you did the right thing. Thank you. For looking after her."

"Of course." Dom strokes his sister's hair absentmindedly, and you wonder how it would have been, another lifetime, another choice taken, another chance. "She's my sister. It's not even a question."

"Can I take over?" you whisper. "I know you've got her, I know you can take care of her, it's not that I don't trust you… I just…"

Carefully, gently, your son eases off the sofa, transfers your other baby into your arms and on you climb in his place, hug her tightly to your chest and she smells of anxiety and fear and vomit and fever and the Kingdom Scotland perfume you gave her for her birthday (late, because she was so upset about her brother you failed to tell her about she wasn't talking to you on her actual birthday).

But on she sleeps, and that's something, at least.

You didn't know it at the time, but now, with the benefit of hindsight, you realise you slept excessively in those first few weeks, too.

"я цябе так люблю, Chloe," you whisper in her ear, softly enough that you won't have to explain to Dom and Lofty, looking on like your baby girl's protectors, the way it should always have been. "Ya syabye tak, tak lyublyu."

You made an inter-library loan request in your final year of medical school, because St Andrews didn't have _Let's Learn Belarusian_and you'd had a very much Scottish single mother in for an elective on your placement that day who'd just adopted a baby from China. She'd told you how important she thought it was to maintain some connection to her little girl's heritage, however tiny, and you'd decided in a strange sort of way, it applied to your little girl's messy entry into the world and the life she'll have with you, or won't have, too.

It has been rather a lot of effort, really, for a simple I love you but this was back before the days of Google Translate.

(And it was always going to be just a simple I love you, with a 'so much' variation for good measure. You'd been clear on that from the start, but it had only been confirmed when the book finally arrived- from Toronto, of all places- and you'd realised you couldn't hack the alphabet.)

Chloe settles, snuffles, like she has done when she's fast asleep and content at last since she was in the NICU incubator in the Glasgow Children's Hospital, and then faintly, ever-so-slightly, she squeezes your hand, and just like that a thousand and one questions flow through your mind.

Because she's still fast asleep; you know that from the slight drooling, and her peaceful expression; you haven't seen her so peaceful while conscious in weeks.

But does she know?

You've never used those words, not in that tongue, in front of her while she's awake, but in her subconscious, does she know?

It's a hell of an argument for nature over nurture, but you've come to realise over the years that no part of you cares.

She's yours.

Chloe's yours.

She's one hundred percent your little Scottish ray of sunshine and hope and that's all anyone ever needs to know, Chloe included.

Unless, of course, all this with Evan and this new crisis threatening to turn her life upside down changes things.

Years after you packaged up the crash course textbook, thanked the university librarian and shipped it off back to Toronto, recited 'я цябе люблю' to yourself over and over until it felt as natural and instinctive as your love for Chloe, you discovered that the Belarusian language is like Scots Gaelic- Gallic, your mother calls it, land of your daughter's mothers.

Crushed and silenced by the conquerors- the Russians and the Poles, in this case, not the English.

You hadn't minded.

It wasn't because this new information to come to light meant the words of affection you'd drilled into your brain would have been a fairytale, a storybook, a grammar lesson, to your little shadow's sperm donor.

It wasn't even that you'd gone through all that effort, couldn't face starting again with the Russian and another indecipherable alphabet (or is it the same thing?).

No. Nye. (No Gallic for no; too ancient, too poetic.)

None of that.

You hadn't minded because it reminded you of the position of Gallic in your own beloved Alba, and it seemed strangely fitting.

She was meant to be; Chloe.

It happened to you so the world could give you Chloe.

**_я цябе так люблю_\- I love you so much. Belarusian. **


	2. Chapter 2

**I am so, so sorry this took me so long- the length is why! But I was determined to get this up before tonight's episode and I've managed it... just! **

**Thank you so much Elleigator, Godxrd and guest for taking the time to review the last chapter- you are all wonderful and I hope this one lives up to expectations! **

**Part II**

The morning sickness situation just seems to keep getting worse and worse, once she knows, and you spend the next evening with her after her shift (which you're convinced she's in no fit state for, but she insists, and you know better than to argue with her when she's like this), huddled together on the bathroom floor at her flat while her body puts her through hell and back, while she shakes with the emotion of it all and her state of distress just seems to escalate and escalate, and you're powerless to stop it.

Morning sickness should most definitely be known as twenty-four-fucking-hour sickness, you contemplate to yourself grimly that night, and it's shit.

It's completely and utterly shit, and all you can do to help is hold her.

Human contact.

You've always been a human contact person, physical affection, but never with anyone else have you taken it to the extremes as you always have with Chloe, and even you can't quite explain why. (Though Fletch has commented on it, of course; tried to ask you jokingly if you were capable of walking past Chloe at work without gently brushing her arm, tapping her shoulder, following along beside her with your arms around her for a moment, once, and you know Jac Naylor thinks you're a ridiculous overbearing mother, but no part of you cares. You told them to mind their own business, parent their own kids the way they see fit and not judge the way you choose to parent yours.)

But somehow, you know that it's just Chloe; know that even if you'd been able to keep Dominic, if you'd raised them both together, in another lifetime, you still wouldn't be quite as physically affectionate with him as you are with Chloe. And it's not because Chloe is special. (She is special, of course, both of your kids are special; they're _yours_.)

It's just… different, with Chloe, different than it's been with anyone else you've ever cared about, and that's not just because Chloe is your little girl. It's more than that.

Protect Chloe at all costs.

That's been your mantra since the moment you realised you were pregnant with her, because sometimes it feels as though she's your precious gift you were never meant to be given- and you don't mean that in a bad way, at all.

You just can't see how you deserve her.

You see her as your perfect little faerie child (you won't use the 'A' word; how can you use the 'A' word to refer to your daughter when your own mother has saddled you with it for a name, for God's sake?) the universe gifted to you, and you don't deserve her in the slightest.

But it was as though she was meant to be. It's as though some inexplicable force recognised that you were off the rails and spiralling further and further out of control, in need of direction, a purpose, and so you were given Chloe.

Chloe.

Chloe is your purpose. Your reason for getting your life together, your reason to keep going, your reason to be happy again, to recover from the ordeal you survived to have her.

And she's _perfect_.

If anything, she's all the more perfect for having inherited so little from you, in the ways she hasn't.

She has none of your rebellious, unruly, wild child nature, thank god; none of that and all of the beauty of the world from which you were given her, your perfect little faerie child.

Though you've never told her.

You always told yourself you'd worry about how to approach it all if and when she asked you, but she never has, and so you simply let it be.

Because it doesn't matter, not to you.

It's never mattered what lies on the other side of her DNA helix.

That's why you like that way of putting it.

Faerie child.

You stole it from your mother's research notes on the mythical creatures of Scottish folklore when she wrote her masters dissertation; Chloe must have been five or six.

(You liked it not just because of the obvious connection- the idea that her origins are unclear, deliberately so, that it doesn't matter in the slightest who fathered her- but also because in Scottish folklore, faeries are assigned as protectors, guardians. And in a lot of ways, Chloe has protected you, too.

She's been protecting you from slipping back into your old habits, messing your life up again, since the moment you realised you were pregnant, because you're absolutely determined that you'll never let her down.)

Maybe it's because of how you had her, where she came from. But those first few months, as you fell a little more in love with her with every passing moment, you were terrified that a social worker with a strong, Slavic accent and Chloe's snow-white complexion and calming blue-green eyes would appear out of nowhere (do they have social workers in Mazyr? They must do, surely?) and declare that Chloe didn't belong with you, re-name her Yekatarina, or Svetlana, or Vasilisa, scoop her up and take her away to the land of radiation sickness and you'd never see her again.

(All you really know about Mazyr is linked to Chernobyl radiation, and that isn't because you haven't tried. It's because you've managed to find a grand total of three history books about Belarus in the whole of Chloe's twenty-nine years, and not one of them mentions Mazyr, the industrial city haphazardly positioned right on the Ukrainian border by the nuclear reactor, mere miles from the exclusion zones. It's strange to think that if it weren't for that catastrophe, you wouldn't have Chloe at all.)

Chloe is _yours_. Maybe it was the teen mum thing all over again, too, not helping matters, but it took you the longest time to fully believe that.

Chloe is your little girl; and she might look nothing like you, and you might appear too young to be her mother, but you are, and she's yours, forever.

She's yours, and she's distraught, and it's down to you to comfort her.

But you don't know how to make it better.

And so you brush her hair back with one hand, steady her with the other, because she's swaying, collapsed over the toilet basin as though she's given up on life itself as she vomits and vomits until there's nothing left to come back up and she's just retching, gag reflex, powerless, sobbing in between the violent fits until finally it seems to cease again, her hands pawing weakly at the edges in a desperate attempt to support herself, too weak, the little energy she had left finally drained of her.

"Mum," Chloe sobs desperately, faint, defeated. "Mum."

"Hey, it's okay. You done for the moment, sweetheart?" you try, hope and pray that you're right and your poor baby girl is through the worst of it now. "Yeah? Lean against me, then, just relax. You're alright. I've got you, Chloe, you're alright, I promise." You pull her back against your chest, lower her into your lap, taken aback a little by how limp and light she feels in your arms, her strength well and truly gone; she seems to have taken you at your word and of course it's okay, of course you don't mind, but you weren't expecting things to be quite this bad.

You can't bear seeing her like this.

You just can't.

She's twenty-nine years old now but she'll always be your baby; you know that because the instinctual reaction within you to pull her into your arms and cuddle her until her cries cease at last and you have a plan to make it all better, hasn't left you, even now.

The trouble is, you can't make it better.

Not this time.

Only your daughter can make this decision; your daughter who collapses into your chest now, head against your heart, nose pressed up against you- newborns experience comfort from the familiarity of their mother's scent, don't they, you ponder absentmindedly, hold her tight.

There's probably an argument to be made about evolution and reflex and instinct, right there, survival techniques we're born with that never really leave us, but you're far too tired just now to follow it through to its logical conclusion.

"It's okay, Chloe," you soothe, run your fingers through her hair gently, brush out the knots as best you can. "It's okay. Just breathe, sweetheart. In and out. You're fine, if you think you're going to be sick again, I'll tilt you forwards. Okay? I've got you. Relax. You do whatever you need to do, Chloe, we can stay here as long as you need to."

The stone of the bathroom floor is cold and the bones of your feet ache, digging into the hard surface at odd angles, Chloe's weight pressing down on top of you.

Though of course, you'd never tell her that.

"I feel like my body's trying to force it out," Chloe whispers. "It's like it's some kind of parasite, or something, it's like I think I'm going to be able to vomit it up and it will all go away, I don't know…" She shakes her head, distressed, and then she's collapsing over the toilet basin again, retching uncontrollably but there's nothing left to bring up, and all you can do is rub gentle circles on her back, grip her tightly, murmur meaningless reassurances in her ear.

There's nothing you can say.

There's nothing you can possibly say to make it better, because the trade off at the end of this most women will cling to seems to be only making your daughter more and more distraught.

"Maybe that's your decision, then, right there?" you suggest tentatively. "Are you done? You sure? Okay. Come on, then, relax for me again, my lovely girl. Relax. I'm not going to let you fall, sweetheart, see? I've got you. I promise."

"I can't do that, though," Chloe whispers. "I can't, if you'd… if you'd done that, Mum, then… then I'd have… I wouldn't be here, I wouldn't…"

Out of nowhere, she turns green again, lurches forward alarmingly, dry retches violently but it's not just the retching you're worried about now.

Chloe's breathing is starting to spiral out of control again, too, and she's shaking with the effort, struggling with something so horribly simple as filling her lungs with oxygen and letting the carbon dioxide out again; the most natural exchange in the world and she's so far gone she's starting to forget how to do it.

God, you feel sick, too.

Because she's your _everything_.

She's the most important thing in your life, has been since the day she was born and she will be until the day you die, no question about it.

And she thinks she has to make the same decision you did because she must owe you and the universe and the choice you made, and you can't stand it.

She doesn't owe you anything.

How could she possibly owe you for deciding to keep her when she's the best thing that's ever happened to you, _yours_, no one else's.

Even if sometimes, just sometimes, she looks at you with her piercing stare of sea-foam-on-Skye deep determination and concentration and she's your little girl, yes, because she always will be, because she's been yours since the day she came into this world and you know every inch of her, but in that moment, she belongs to another world you'll never understand.

(Sea form on Skye, not Belarusian meadows. No sea, no ocean, in Belarus; landlocked. Horror of horrors.)

You can't explain it any better than that.

She's yours. She looks nothing like you and your highland heritage, no, but you remember she's of that world only in her moments of fierce determination, when she will succeed because she knows she can and nothing will stop her.

(And even then, she's still your baby. You wouldn't change a single thing about her, not one, because she's _perfect_, and you wouldn't ever want her any different. But god forbid anyone tell her she can't do something when she's utterly insistent that she can; not like you get in your own stubbornness, but something… something else.)

There's something in her that you'll never quite understand, because how can you, because only half the cells that make her Chloe are all you've ever known yourself, and you promised her a long time ago, holding her in the NICU when you were finally allowed to lift her out the incubator, that you'd never, ever try to mould her in your own image.

You'll never tell her where she came from, not completely, not unless she wants to know and you're sure it won't destroy her.

But you'll accept her for who she is and you'll simply let her be, because you love her, and you trust her, and that's all that will ever matter.

Perhaps if you told her that, now, she'd worry that she scares you. That you've looked at her over the years and you've worried that she'll grow to be like the man who gave her life, share his temperament, his fury, and his violence, but hand on your heart, you'll be able to tell her that it isn't true.

The trouble is, you worry that she won't be able to let herself believe it.

Short, sharp breaths; dry retching, her weight pressed up against yours.

You wish you could bear it for her.

"Chloe?" you try again. "Chloe, listen to me, sweetheart. I really need you to listen, I need you to try and believe me. Okay? Good girl. Come on, Chloe, breathe through it. It's going to be worse if you fight it, I need you to just try and go with it. Yeah? I know it's horrendous, sweetheart, I know this must be awful for you to have to…"

"You went through it," Chloe whispers. She seems to have stopped retching again- for now, at least- and her voice is laced with guilt that shouldn't be there, never, so you hold onto her tighter, protective, heart beginning to break. "You had to go through it, that must have been just as…"

"Yes," you agree. "Yes, I went through it, but nothing like this. Can I sit you up, sweetheart?" You wait for her tiny, uncertain nod, hate how fragile she feels, weak and motionless as a rag doll. "If you think you're going to be sick again, that's fine, but I'm a bit worried about your breathing, I think you're going to find it easier to calm your breathing down if we get you upright. Good girl."

She smells of vomit and cold and anxiety and the shower gel you know she scrubbed half her skin off with after work in self-hatred, and you take a deep breath, overcome with a desperate, burning need to comfort her, and yet at the same time you're so horribly afraid of getting it wrong- because it's such a delicate balance, when it's coming at her from both sides, like this.

(Your poor Chloe. Your poor, poor Chloe…)

"I… it was… different, when I was pregnant with Dominic," you begin. "It was completely different circumstances. Yes, I had awful morning sickness, but it didn't have the same… the same emotions attached to it, I guess. And with you… I didn't even know I was pregnant with you until I was way, way beyond this stage. And it was different, Chloe. We were both… raped, but believe me."

You draw gentle circles on your daughter's shoulders with the tips of your fingers, the faintest traces of relief stirring within you as her breathing finally begins to calm a little. "It was totally different for me. I didn't have… sustained involvement, I guess, with him, before it happened. Maybe that made it easier. I don't know. But the point is, I've done it both ways, haven't I? I knew I desperately wanted to be your mum- I needed to be, really. I couldn't imagine giving you up. There's never been a day that's gone by that I haven't known I did the right thing, having you. I couldn't be without you, not for anything, and I've always felt like that. But I was ready to be a mum, when I realised I was pregnant with you. I wasn't when I had Dominic. I thought I was, but I wasn't, so I had to make the right decision for me then, too. And that's what you need to do, now, sweetheart. You need to do the right thing for you, Chloe. And I… I understand that you're so upset about it all that it's hard to think straight right now. I really do. But you can't base your decision on what I did. Look at me, my beautiful girl."

"Except I'm not."

"Except you are," you tell her firmly. "You're _beautiful._ I'm your mum, I know these things."

"That makes you biased, though."

She's trying to distract you.

It's her classic tactic.

Distract you, move the conversation away from whatever it is she's finding so difficult to talk about, what feels like safer territory.

Except it isn't.

It only comes back to haunt her later when she still desperately needs to unburden, needs your reassurance, but she's pushed you away again and again until she's hit breaking point.

"I'm totally biased, yes, but I can be objective. And anyway, it's not just me who thinks that. People tell me how beautiful my lovely daughter is all the time."

"That's because you wave photos of me in their faces and ask them if they think your daughter's beautiful. They're just too polite to say no."

"Will you stop being so self-deprecating? I've never done that. Okay, so maybe I have a couple of times. But rarely. Very, very rarely, every now and then you just make me so proud I can't help myself. Now, look at me. Listen. I know it's hard. But you can't base your decision on what I decided. You can't, Chloe. You really can't. They're two completely different situations. You don't owe anyone anything just because of how I had you, my darling. Okay? I didn't keep you so you could justify your being here, or whatever it seems like in your head right now. So you could redeem yourself. You're innocent, Chloe, of everything that happened to me. I kept you because I knew I loved you, and I knew I wanted to be your mum so, so much. And if you don't feel like that, that's fine. You mustn't feel like you have to…"

There's a loud knock on the other side of the bathroom door, and Chloe startles in your arms, panicked, cries out in fear before you can reassure her.

"Sorry!" Nicky calls apologetically. "Sorry, Chloe, I'm sorry! Do you mind coming out just for a minute? I wouldn't ask, I just really need a wee…"

Chloe doesn't even look up, motionless, stares into space.

She doesn't care anymore, you realise with a sinking feeling in your heart.

She just doesn't care anymore; she's beyond.

You don't know how to claw your little girl back, and it's breaking your heart.

"Okay!" You call, deciding there's no way your daughter is up to taking control of the situation herself. "Okay, sorry, Nicky, we'll be out in a minute! Do you think you could grab Chloe a bowl, first? Please? Just in case, she's still…"

"On it!" Nicky shouts back, voice fading away in the direction of the kitchen.

Chloe trembles, still ever-so-slightly green.

"Can you stand, sweetheart?" You try.

You know the answer.

Get her out of here.

Get her out of here, somehow; that's what you need to focus on for now. Get her out of the bathroom in one piece, get her into her room, shut the door.

Somehow convince her that she needs to make the right decision for her, no one else.

God only knows how you're going to handle that one.

Chloe nods, trembles, moves to push herself up from the floor, but even with your arms around her, supporting, taking her weight, it's too much effort.

Cold, bony shoulder blades collapse back into your chest, shaky, exhausted, and it's with a sinking feeling in your heart that you realise while you can carry her still, especially when she's like this, there's no way you're going to be able to pick her up off the floor.

"Mum…"

"I know, sweetheart. I know, it's okay," you try to reassure her. "You're going to be fine, Chloe. You're just exhausted, that's all." You hold her against your chest, shuffle together across the bathroom floor, reach up to slide the latch across. "You're exhausted and you're in shock and you're upset and you haven't been able to keep anything down for two days, I'm not surprised you've got no energy left."

Her hands tangle in your hair, and all of a sudden, you're seventeen years old again.

You're seventeen years old and you've just become a mother- and it's not for the first time, admittedly, but it's the first time you've been ready.

You're seventeen years old, still a child yourself for the best part of another year and yet you've got a tiny little human of your own, one who's completely dependent on you for everything, tangles her tiny fingers in your hair whenever the nurses on her NICU unit let you hold her, snuffles in her sleep, nuzzles her head into your chest and sucks her thumb when she's hungry as if she knows what's supposed to happen, somehow, because you haven't been able to feed her properly yet, only recently graduated to offering her expressed milk in a syringe and she's still bringing that back up half the time, but she seems to know what she's supposed to do, what you're there for. And she wriggles and jerks and mews like a helpless little kitten when she's unhappy but the moment you cuddle her against your chest she calms down, still, content and that's how you know she's yours, your baby girl, your responsibility, your tiny little ray of sunshine and she's the best thing that's ever happened to you beyond all doubt, the only thing that matters, the only thing that will ever matter again.

And in those moments, those precious occasions you're allowed to lift her out her incubator and hold her, you know that life as you know it is about to be turned upside down all over again.

You know she needs you. You know she's going to need you for everything, tiny, helpless, that the moment you're finally allowed to take her home from the NICU unit she'll be your responsibility forever, depend on you for the next eighteen years but perhaps she'll still need you beyond that, and if she does, you'll be there.

Because they talked about complications, those weeks on the NICU unit, told you your perfect little baby was too tiny, too early, too weak, starved of oxygen for the first few minutes of her life and her bloodstream pumped with weed and alcohol and all the chemicals and other foul crap that comes with cigarettes for the eight months that came before that and it's that damage you did to her then that undoubtedly made her so tiny, underdeveloped, when she was born, thrust her into the world five weeks early in the first place.

They warned you that she might be left with developmental delays. That she might struggle, that there might be things physically, emotionally, cognitively, that she'd never master, that she might never be able to live independently, might take years to learn to walk, to talk, to laugh, if she ever did. And she proved them all wrong spectacularly, but you had no way of knowing that, then, those first times you'd been allowed to hold her.

All you'd known, all those years ago, was that she was yours. And you were seventeen years old and terrified, traumatised, clueless, but you knew you could cope with her.

You knew you could cope with her where you'd failed with Dom a thousand times over because you couldn't imagine life without her. Because every time you held her, watched her little face and her gentle, snuffled breathing and her blinking and she'd hiccup against your chest, you were filled with a strength you'd never known you'd had before, for her. All for her.

You can't imagine Chloe with a baby.

You can't see her coping.

Not now.

You just can't see her coping, and you can't stand back and watch her fail the way you did with Dom, go through all that heartbreak, just because she feels morally obliged to go through with a pregnancy that's already causing her so much distress.

Because this isn't just about the morning sickness.

You know it isn't.

The morning sickness is bad, yes, but her distress at being pregnant with her rapist's baby is only exacerbating it, and that's totally okay, as far as you're concerned.

You never, ever want her to feel she has to go through with anything she doesn't want to just because it's what you did.

You push the door open with your feet, rock Chloe in your arms, gentle, comforting.

"Cameron!" you shout loudly. "Cameron, can you come and give Chloe and me a hand, please?"

You figure he might as well make himself useful.

They appear in the doorway together. Cam and Nicky, concerned expressions, Nicky holding out the requested bowl from the kitchen.

"Is she…" Cam begins.

"She's _fine_," you tell him firmly, determined to shut down any questions, any suggestions, before they even have a chance to raise them. "She's fine, she's just poorly. It's a virus. It's just a virus. Can you help me with her, please, Cameron? She's fine, she's just exhausted, I just need you to give me a hand getting her up…"

_If she vomits on you, I'm sorry_, you add in your head.

Because she's still your baby.

She might be grown up now, but you still feel the need to apologise for her like she's your baby, your responsibility.

"Of course. Chlo?" Cameron is kneeling on the bathroom floor now, approaches slowly, carefully (and he's redeemed himself a little for that, you decide, because it's clear that he's aware his presence might freak your baby girl out while she's like this, needs to be gentle with her, patient. "Chlo, is it okay if I touch you? I'm not going to hurt you, I'm just going to help you stand up and…"

"It's fine," Chloe whispers. "I… I trust you."

All the same, she's shaking.

"Okay. You tell me if I'm making you feel uncomfortable, though, alright? Look, you can hold onto your mum as well. Nicky, why don't you pass Ange the bowl, we'll get out of your way in a minute, I promise."

"It's fine. It's fine, do you want me to help, shall I…"

"I don't want a fuss," Chloe whispers, flushing, and all you want is to get her out of here, take her home to yours, look after her away from the prying eyes and unwanted questions of her flatmates like you should have from the start, protect her. "I can… I can just…"

"No, you can't," Cameron insists gently. He meets your eyes for a moment, questioning, pleading for an answer, and you hope to god he hasn't worked it out. "Let us help you. Okay? You look exhausted, maybe we need to think about getting you into the ED, just in case…"

"She's _fine_," you insist. Chloe's cold hands claw at your own, panicked, frantic, and there's nothing you wouldn't do for her, not to keep this a secret, if that's what she needs to be able to cope with it all. "She just needs to get it out of her system and rest, she'll be fine. She doesn't need the ED. I'm going to stay with her until she's through the worst of it, she's got me to take care of her. She doesn't need to go anywhere near the ED, there's absolutely no need."

You regret being so firm about it, the moment you finish, take in Cameron's concerned expression, confused, mind racing.

It's perfectly clear that if he wasn't suspicious before, he is now.

(Shit. You've blown it, practically confirmed to him that you and Chloe have something to hide and now he'll be trying to piece it all together, shit, shit…)

"Alright. If that's what you think is best. Chlo? We'll stand up together, okay?" Cameron suggests gently. "Come on. Hold onto me and your mum, that's it."

"I feel like I'm going to…"

"That's okay," you soothe. (Because you know exactly what she's going to say; it's obvious, she's turned positively green again, faint, eyelids fluttering.) "We've got you. Okay? You're fine, sweetheart. You're fine. I don't think you're going to be sick again, are you, not properly. We just need to get you out of here, get you more comfortable. You'll feel better once we get you off the floor, I promise."

You can't promise her, really.

You have no right to promise her, no real experience.

You sailed through with Dom, really, got off incredibly lightly compared to Chloe, and you were so blinded by naïve excitement at becoming a mother at the tender age of fourteen that you were willing to overlook the mornings you did spend in the school toilets.

God only knows if you struggled with morning sickness with Chloe. You were so busy getting yourself as plastered as physically possible during the weeks you would have suffered with morning sickness with Chloe, that god only knows how much of the vomiting was pregnancy related and how much of it was alcohol poisoning.

(To this day, you thank your lucky stars that the only symptom of foetal alcohol syndrome Chloe has ever exhibited was the painfully slow growth that had you worried from the moment she was born until she was practically an adult.)

Her legs shake furiously, Bambi-on-ice-like, and you can see her trying to support herself but it's equally evident that Cameron is the one taking her weight, holding her upright.

Maybe you should get her into the ED after all, you panic. Maybe it's hyperemesis gravidarum, maybe she's severely dehydrated, maybe you need to get her onto an IV and…

Don't panic, you try to tell yourself.

Don't panic.

You can check her pulse, assess her properly, once you've got her back into her bedroom and shut the door, once Cameron can't overhear…

Cameron.

To his credit, Cameron is calmer than you are, scoops Chloe up into his arms with strength you'd never have predicted he had and carries her through to her bedroom, has her curled up back in her bed before she's had time to realise what's happened, time for the PTSD to set in, the anxiety, the panic.

(She's too thin. No offense to Cameron, but he's not exactly muscular, and this isn't the first time over the course of the last few weeks you've worried that she's far too thin, that she's not coping at all and she's fallen back into her awful habits she seemed to rely upon to function when her mental health was at its worst as a teenager, that she isn't eating at all, not really, just about doing enough to prevent Nicky and Cameroon worrying about her too much, but not eating anywhere near enough, making herself ill, shit…)

"Do you need anything?" Cameron is asking your daughter quietly, concerned. "Chlo? I'll leave you with your mum, but do you want me to get you anything? Do you think some water might help, or…"

"I'm okay," Chloe whispers.

Cold, cold hands reach out for yours, clammy, shaking uncontrollably now, tries to pull herself upright with your grip and she just looks so exhausted, so drained, so completely and utterly done with it all, and you wish it was you instead.

What you went through to have her was horrendous, but you'd endure it all again a thousand times over, if only it meant your baby girl never had to know that pain.

"Okay," Cameron says quietly, pensive. "Okay. I… I'm going to head out to the supermarket, we're low on milk," he stammers, almost nervous, but you haven't got the energy or the strength left to care, too busy trying to pull Chloe into your arms without jolting the mattress, alarming her, because you know it's a fine balance.

Chloe has made it perfectly clear over the last few weeks that unexpected touch is enough to send her back into flashback territory, and the last thing you'd ever want to do is startle her.

And that's what makes it all so difficult.

Because she's your Chloe.

She's been clingy since the day she was born, always craved physical contact when she's upset, and you just don't know how to give her what she needs when she's like this, frightened animal-like, rabbit-in-the-headlights, desperate for a hug and yet when you reach out to wrap your arms around her she jumps, frantic, just for the briefest of moments, hugs you back and yet you've seen the look in her eyes, dilated pupils, fight or flight mode.

You hate this.

(Chloe's head of year in S5 would tell you she's far too emotionally dependent on you and you should have taught her to hold herself together without your comfort years ago, your brain reminds you absentmindedly, and then you hate this awful situation even more.)

"Thank you, Cameron," you tell him as he leaves the room, pulls the door to.

And you try to force yourself to look up, actually make eye contact with him.

You really do.

But your lovely daughter is trembling again, chest heaving with sobs the moment Cameron turns away, and how can you look away from her?

How can you possibly focus on her flatmate when she's hurting, when she's your everything, your beautiful little faerie child, your purpose?

"Come on, Chloe," you soothe, rocking her in your arms again as though your life depends upon it, clinging to her, never want to let go again. "Come on, my sweet girl, it's alright. It's alright, you're alright…"

"It isn't though!" Chloe sobs. "It isn't, Mum! It isn't, it isn't…"

What can you say?

"I know, sweetheart. I know it doesn't feel like that right now, but it will be," you promise her. "It will be. I'm going to fix everything, my sweet girl. Everything. I'm your mum, and I love you, and I promise you, it's not going to feel like this forever. Okay? We're going to get you through this."

"I don't know what I want, though, Mum," Chloe whispers faintly. "I… I do, but I don't know if I can go through with…"

"Shhh. Okay, sweetheart. It's okay. What you want, or what you think you should want?" you ask her gently. "Chloe? Because they're different, aren't they? This isn't about me, or what I did, or what other people might think, or anything else. This is about you. It's your decision."

"You wouldn't…" Chloe glances towards the door anxiously, clamming up again.

"It's alright. It's alright, Chloe, Cameron's going out, do you remember him saying? I think he's just going around the corner to Morrison's, or something. And I'm pretty sure I can hear Nicky singing in the shower."

"Probably making the most of actually being able to get into the bathroom." Chloe flushes, embarrassed. "They must be so annoyed with me…"

"Of course they aren't, sweetheart. They're worried about you. They aren't annoyed with you at all, Chloe, I promise. I think you're a bit out of it, aren't you…"

"I feel kind of…" Chloe shakes her head. "I don't know. Dreaming."

"You're probably a bit delirious. You must be exhausted…"

"Not dreaming, Mum. Like… like I'm trapped in a nightmare and I can't wake up…"

"Oh, okay. Okay, sweetheart, I'm with you now. Okay. I think… I think we need to keep an eye on it for the next few hours," you try gently, know full well how badly she's going to take this, but you don't know what else to do. "I think… morning sickness is one thing, but if you still aren't keeping anything down at all tomorrow, I think Cameron might have a point. I think we might have to think about getting you into the ED, just in case it's…"

"No."

"Chloe…"

"Mum. I'm not going to hospital with… with this. Okay? I haven't… I haven't decided what I'm doing about it yet, I'm not…"

You know better than to argue with her.

She's fiery, when she's angry.

Not your angry, not always, not Scottish barbarian angry. (Channel your inner highland barbarian, you've always told her, because if that's how the English bastards view you all, you might as well own it.)

Slavic angry.

Sometimes she looks at you with her beautiful, not-sea-foam-on-Skye eyes and it's so perfectly clear that there's a part of her that isn't you at all, a part of her you'll never understand.

Not his eyes.

Because they're identical to his eyes, and sometimes, just sometimes, when she's angry, there's that fire in them that you remember.

But they're still not his eyes.

Never his.

You might never truly understand her, not completely, but she's yours, your baby, and you'll never, ever be afraid of her like you were him.

"Okay," you tell her gently, casually as you can manage. "Okay, sweetheart. How about we talk about something else for a bit, hey? Do you think that might help? Maybe we need to just try and… I don't know, forget about it isn't right, is it? But try and distract you a bit? You don't need to make a decision right now, Chloe, we can…"

"Do I look… you know. _That_?"

She can't say it, you realise now.

That word.

She can't even say it.

God, you need to convince her to do the right thing for _her._

"Well, no, you don't in your enormous hoodie thing."

"Mum…"

"I'm serious! I can't really tell when you're wearing that thing. I can tell you right now though, you don't. I don't need to see. You're eleven weeks, Chloe, you won't be showing yet. I only looked about five months max when I had you, you've got good holding it all in genes."

"I don't count, though." She fidgets, rests her head against your chest, closes her eyes. "I was like… I don't know. A scrawny baby bird, or something. I've seen the photos."

You hate it when she talks about herself like that.

"Umm, no, you weren't. You were tiny, yes, but scrawny isn't the right word. You were just… dinky. You were so little I only needed one arm to hold you, I'm sure I only managed to get you halfway across Glasgow to the SARC without anyone interfering because…"

You trail off, because you're back there again.

You're seventeen years old and you're filled with a panic unlike anything you've ever known before, run through the streets of Pollokshields in just your bra and your pregnancy jeans you may or may not have stolen from New Look two weeks earlier, impossibly small bundle wrapped in your favourite, now bloodied Guns and Roses t shirt and your dad's old Scottish rugby jersey, clasped tightly against your chest, the most precious little thing you've ever held in all your life.

(And you feel awful even thinking that, now, because of course, she wasn't your first baby, but it's true.

That's how you felt, all those years ago, and you won't apologise for it.

It only goes to prove beyond all doubt that you were far, far too young to be a mother, when you had Dominic.)

"Because?"

"Because you were so little, I think it just looked like I was holding onto my jumper weirdly, or something. I didn't have a blanket or anything, obviously, so I had to just wrap you up in my t shirt and my jumper. Well, Granddad's jumper. We managed to get most of the newborn gunk stuff off Granddad's jumper, but the t shirt didn't survive."

"Oh, Mum…"

"Hey, it's okay. We're okay, aren't we? Both of us, we're alright, we made it through the whole ordeal unscathed. That's all that matters. But this is why I'm so, so glad you felt you could tell me, sweetheart. I never, ever want you to… you know. To give birth unassisted like that, on your own, in the middle of nowhere in the cold. I never want you to feel you can't call me to come to your rescue. I'm your mum, that's my job. Always. Whenever you need me. No matter what you've done. Anyway. You were tiny, yes, but I really didn't show with you. At all. And I guarantee you aren't, either. No one's going to notice, Chloe, I promise. You've got plenty of time to think about what you want to do before anyone's going to be…"

"You don't know that, Mum. I can't… I can't leave it more than a couple of weeks, can I, either way. I've got to… I've got to make a decision, or I've probably got two weeks max before people start to notice…"

"We've just been through this," you remind her gently. She breathes softly against your chest, hair tickling your neck. "I managed eight months with you without anyone suspecting a thing- admittedly I was wearing these enormous baggy hoodie things your nana hated for the last couple of weeks, but I totally could have gotten away with just put on some weight if… you know. If I hadn't already had one teenage pregnancy. If I can do eight months, you've definitely got a while yet before anyone notices. Good holding it all in genes. You've got plenty of time to decide what you want to do."

"We don't know what I've got coming at me from the other side though." She trembles again, grips onto your hand so tightly it hurts, and you squeeze back gently, try to calm her. "You know. The non-you bits. I could be enormous by the time I'm twelve weeks, for all we know, I'm not going to be able to do anything before twelve weeks now, am I?"

You think of Tatsiyana.

You think of Tatsiyana, short, slight, waif-like even after four children, snow-white skin like Belarusian winter and golden blonde hair like the wheat fields in summer, before the radiation came. (Or is that Ukraine? You get them muddled up, sometimes, because there's more to read about Ukraine, but that makes you feel horribly guilty at times because you're convinced that you should have a firmer grasp on it all than this, given the universe gave you Chloe.)

You think of _him_, come to that.

You know who Chloe takes after, and it most certainly isn't you.

"Chloe," you tell her softly, and it feels like the ultimate risk, but you have to take it. "We do know, sweetheart. Okay? I… I may know, anyway. Just… trust me. You've got good genes coming at you from both sides on that one. You're only eleven weeks. Alright? You've got plenty of time. The last thing I want you to be thinking is you need to rush into a decision, I want you to think this through properly. For your sake."

"You knew him, didn't you?" Chloe realises. "You knew his family."

You hold her so tightly you can feel her heart beating against your own, because this is how it always comes out, when you're back there again, that frightened sixteen-year-old too afraid to admit what had happened to you, too ashamed.

Whenever you're back there again, frightened, it comes out in protectiveness over Chloe.

(Except you couldn't save Chloe from this. You failed, you let it happen to Chloe, too, shit, shit…)

"Do they know about me?" your daughter whispers.

You tuck her head under your chin, cup her cheek, remember the first time you did this, back when she was so tiny and fragile that every time you went to move her little hands, stop her scratching at her face, you were terrified of breaking her.

"You're safe," you tell her simply, because that's all that matters. "You're mine, and you're safe. I promise. I did everything I had to back then to make sure you'd always be safe. Okay? From him. From them. From… from that. And I… I couldn't stop it from happening to you, too, and I'm so, so, sorry…"

"It wasn't your fault, Mum…"

"Hear me out, Chloe. Please? I know I couldn't stop it from happening to you, but I _promise_, I can protect you from that. You're my little girl. You're nothing to do with anyone else. You never have been."

"Was my dad Scottish?"

You sigh, take a deep breath. "Are you sure you want me to answer that? I need you to be really, really sure first, sweetheart…"

"I'm sure."

"Okay." You hold onto her tightly, cuddle her into your chest, heart racing out of control because you truly don't know how she's going to take this, and you're certain that if you have to have this conversation, now is most definitely not the moment.

But what can you do?

"No," you tell her gentle. "No. But he's not your dad, Chloe. He's not your dad, but I'm your mum, you're my wonderful daughter and I love you so, so much. I'm your mum, so you're Scottish. Okay? You're one hundred percent Scottish because you're mine, and I never, ever want you to think any different."

She's quiet for a moment, pensive.

Dull, sea-foam-on-skye eyes stare back at you for a moment- dull, as though the life has been sucked out of her, nuclear disaster of her paternal DNA, destruction, devastation.

Lifeless.

"Am I half English?"

"God, no. Do you think I've have kept you if you were half English? Oh, Chloe, sweetheart, I'm joking. I'm joking, I promise. I promise I am. Come on."

Your baby girl's eyes are dull no longer, swim with tears, ocean salt and heartbreak and pain and self-loathing all at once.

You can't bear it.

"I'm joking," you promise, rock her back and forth in your arms. "Chloe, listen to me. It was a joke, sweetheart. It was a bad joke, and I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I should have thought, I didn't mean to upset you. You're mine. Okay? I don't give a shit about anything else, I never have. You're _my_daughter, that's all that matters. That's all that's ever mattered, ever since I realised I was pregnant with you. You're _mine_. You're mine, and so you're Scottish. I promise it's as simple as that, Chloe. It really is."

She just nods, at first, pensive, trembles. "Am I European?"

"You're totally European, yes. And you're Scottish. You're a highland barbarian, my lovely girl, highland barbarians don't come in halves. You have to own the insults the English bastards throw our way."

"So if… am I eligible for an EU passport? You know. After Brexit."

You can't tell her.

You can't possibly tell her that the answer is no, because 'no' applies to so little of Europe nowadays that she's bound to work it out eventually.

Do you want her to work it out?

It's such a minefield.

Sometimes you think it wouldn't be so bad if she did know.

It's not exactly the worst secret in the world, after all, because she's not the man who helped you give her life.

She's nothing to do with him.

But she does share his heritage, of course, his heritage that's so different to your own, and that's why you've always been so adamant you'll never tell her she's anything but your Scottish blood.

You never, ever want her to believe she's like her father, not even for a moment.

And you worry that if you give her even the tiniest detail, there'll be no turning back.

No, you decide.

You've been through this before.

It's better that she remain in blissful ignorance forever, know nothing but you and your family and your heritage, see herself purely as a product of you.

She's safer that way.

You can't watch her tear herself apart again in self-loathing, the way she did when you told her, all those years ago.

"No, you're not," you tell her, stroke her cheek as though she's your baby again.

(In the literal sense, that is, because she's always been your baby.)

"No?"

"No, and that's not an answer to the question you think you're asking. It doesn't matter what you are, sweetheart, because you've only got me on your birth certificate. You'd need more proof for dual citizenship than your mum says so, if the answer was yes. So the whole thing's irrelevant, really. It doesn't matter what the answer is, because either way, you're not getting an EU passport out of it."

Chloe is silent for a moment, pensive. "Oh well. I suppose I'm just going to have to pin all my hopes on Nicola coming through for me and securing Scottish independence and EU membership, aren't I."

"Nicola will _always_come through for you, sweetheart," you tell her firmly. "Always."

You did look it up, once.

Twice, actually.

Once when it was the Soviet Union, when Chloe was a tiny baby and you were terrified of Tatsiyana kidnapping her granddaughter and taking her back to the edges of the exclusion zone, so you'd had Chloe at the SARC do some research for you at the local library and told the NICU that under no circumstances were they to give out any information, let alone access, to Chloe, your Chloe, to anyone but you and your mum and Chloe from the SARC, other Chloe.

And once when Chloe came home from school with her top set superstar genius language extension form for S3, faced with a choice between Russian and Japanese.

(She'd taken to the Russian like a natural in the taster session, the Russian teacher had told you, perfected the accent, even looked a little Russian, come to think of it, and you know she thought you'd be pleased Chloe was doing so well but it had made your blood run cold.)

You'd gently, subtly steered Chloe towards the Japanese instead (and so you probably have only yourself to blame for her sushi addiction, really). Because the idea of her learning to speak the language of her sperm donor (his real language, not the beautiful, fairy-tale Belarusian, Gallic-like, you've made a token gesture effort with) had filled you with a complete and utter horror you couldn't ever rationalise, still can't, even now.

You'd looked it up, then, and so you know.

You know that the land of Chloe's Y chromosome doesn't allow dual citizenship.

"Mum?"

"Yes, sweetheart?"

"I don't understand how you do it," Chloe whispers, broken, distraught, scratches furiously at her wrists. "I don't understand how you had me, how you can bear to look at me knowing I'm…"

"Because I've never seen it like that," you tell her firmly. "Don't do that, sweetheart. Hey? Come on." You catch her hands in your own, hold her still. "Please don't hurt yourself. I love you so much, I don't want you to hurt yourself. Listen to me. I have never, ever looked at you and been reminded of how I had you, okay? I promise. I mean it, Chloe, I wouldn't lie to you about that. You're my baby. Nobody else's. And that doesn't mean you have to feel like that in your… your situation. You need to make your own decision. But I want you to know that not once have I ever associated you with how I had you. Okay? I had you via a donor, as far as I'm concerned…"

"How did you know that, though?" She's wrapped her arms around your neck again, clings on like she's a small child, and maybe Fletch does have a point, about her still needing you emotionally more than his kids do him, but quite frankly you don't give a shit.

"You felt right," you tell her simply. "As soon as I realised I was pregnant with you, something just felt right. Like I was meant to be your mum. Like I had to go through… that, and yes, it was horrific, but I had to go through it because it gave me you, and I knew I needed to be your mum. I didn't just want to be your mum, I needed to be. I don't know how else to describe it. You just felt right. I knew. Do you feel like that? Honestly, sweetheart, tell me?"

Chloe pauses for a moment, as though she's trying so, so hard to convince herself otherwise.

And then her lower lip trembles, and her eyes fill with tears again, and she shakes her head furiously, lets out a pained, strangled sob.

"No," she confesses, hiccups through her tears. "I… I don't want it… I can't… I just… I just want it to be gone…"

You think your heart might just break.

She's twenty-nine years old, not your baby anymore, but still every time she's upset like this she shatters your heart into pieces.

"Alright. Alright, my sweet girl, it's alright. You're fine," you murmur. "You're fine, I've got you. I've got you now. We're going to fix everything. I promise. If you're sure that's what you want to do, then we'll get you a GP appointment tomorrow, okay? I'll come with you, we'll get it confirmed and then we can…"

You're interrupted by a gentle knock on your daughter's bedroom door, and then Cameron appears, nervous, mug of tea in one hand, plastic carrier bag in the other.

"Sorry," he stammers. "Sorry, I… maybe I shouldn't have, I just…" He glances between you and your daughter desperately, as though it's suddenly dawned on him that perhaps whatever it is he's done isn't the most sensible idea after all. "Perhaps I'm wrong. Perhaps I'm wrong, but I don't think I am, and I… I know I might be crossing the line, and if I am, then… just tell me, okay? Just tell me, and we don't ever have to speak about this again. But I've… I may have got you some things from the supermarket. Things I thought might help. This is… it's ginger tea." He holds out the mug, seems to realise Chloe is in no fit state to take it from him, places it down on her bedside table instead. "I got you some ginger biscuits too, I… ginger's supposed to be good, isn't it. For the… you know. And I…" he blushes furiously, reaches into the carrier bag, pulls out the box, and at first, you aren't sure whether you want to hug him or slap him. "I don't… I don't know what you want to do, I'm sure you haven't had time to make a decision just yet. But… just in case. If you want them. If you don't, it's fine, just stick them in the bin, but I thought… you know. In case you wanted them. And I think some women find prenatal vitamins help with the…"

"Cameron," you warn. "Cameron, I know you mean well, but I think it might be best if you just…"

But Chloe shakes her head, cuts you off.

"Thank you, Cam," she whispers. "Thank you. That's… that's really sweet of you, but…"

"Do you want me to take it away?" Cameron worries, reaches for the mug. "I can…"

"No. No, thank you. For the tea. I haven't tried ginger yet, but I'm willing to give anything a go at this point. But I…" Chloe meets his eyes at last, gestures to the vitamins, calmer, more _Chloe_, somehow, than you've seen her in weeks. "I'm not going to need those."


End file.
